


Pat-a-cake, Pat-a-cake, Baker Street Man

by funeralshenanigans



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anderson Bashing, Gen, Good guy John, I Don't Even Know, John wouldn't want to eat that cake, Petulant Sherlock, Poisoning, Pre-Reichenbach, Sherlock can bake
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-16
Updated: 2013-09-16
Packaged: 2017-12-26 19:02:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/969193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/funeralshenanigans/pseuds/funeralshenanigans
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“John, how much cyanide is too much?” In which Sherlock has decided to try his hand at baking. Anderson likes cakes, right? Slightly Crack Fic. My bad.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pat-a-cake, Pat-a-cake, Baker Street Man

**Author's Note:**

  * For [KingsAmongRunaways](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KingsAmongRunaways/gifts).



John knew something wasn’t quite right; it wasn’t the fact that Sherlock hadn’t sank into his customary dark mood now that their latest case was three days solved, or even the fact that he was dressed rather than slinking around in nothing but a sheet. No. What had tipped him off was the fact that the kitchen table had been cleared of Bunsen burners, Petri dishes and a sample of twenty eight days matured mould to make space for a rather large mixing bowl, a carton of eggs, a bag of flour and more worryingly, a brown bottle of God knew what with a warning label wrapped around it. 

“...Sherlock?” Christ. All he wanted was a cup of tea and some toast. That was how you were meant to start your day. Not by walking into something that was, quite frankly, alarming. “Sherlock, I think we were burgled by a Chemistry major. And they left you a gift; what _is_ that?”

“Don’t be absurd, John.” Ah. There the mad bastard was. “I’m baking. And I needed room.”

“I like my explanation better. Not as disturbing.” John cocked his head at his flatmate. “Are you wearing an apron?”

A roll of the eyes here. “Clearly.” There was a snap of plastic as Sherlock donned a pair of gloves that looked far more at home in the morgue. “Problem, John?” At this, he slipped a pair of protective glasses on and lifted an inquisitive brow. 

“No. No problem.” What would Lestrade say? ‘Not my division?’ Yeah. That sounded about right. Currently his division consisted of the toaster and the kettle. Inching his way around Sherlock, hands held up in a placating manner, he gave the table--and by association, Sherlock--a wide berth. “Just want to get some breakfast.”

“Tea would be lovely,” was the only reply he got and John chanced a look over his shoulder only to catch Sherlock delving into his cooking experiment with an expression he usually reserved for deducing a rather exciting bit of evidence. 

There was no way that this could end well, for either of them or their flat. He silently bade his final farewell to the toaster even as he dropped two slices of bread into it.

***

“John, how much cyanide is too much?”

It was as John was just finishing the last of his jam on toast that Sherlock spoke and clearly he hadn’t heard right because what? Turning the television down, he knew he was going to miss the lie detector results and now would never know if the young man in question was the baby’s father or not, he sighed and twisted in his chair to see the kitchen. “Come again?”

“Honestly,” well, he heard that mutter and he didn’t have to see the eye roll to know it was there. And then, at normal level, it was clear that Sherlock was repeating himself, if only by the tone of his voice. “How much cyanide is too much? And yes, he is the biological father.”

“I thought that’s what you said... Too much for what?” was his immediate reply, when surely it should have been, **_“Any.”_** He’d been living with Sherlock for far too long... that much was obvious. “And yeah, uh, thanks for that. But I’d much rather be watching Jeremy Kyle than having conversations like this with my mad flatmate.”

“To incapacitate someone for a week or so.” The rest was clearly ignored.

“Is that what that brown bottle is? You never answered me before.”

“Is that really relevant to my question?” A huff. “ _Yes._ What does it matter?”

“What poor bastard are you planning on giving that cake to? You do realise, don’t you, that no one in their right mind would accept a cake off you.”

“Does it matter _who?_ Do you have to be so incredibly dull--what? They wouldn’t? Why not? It’s a cake. People like cake, regardless who’s made it.”

“Yeah, unless that person is you.”

“Fine,” and it was said with such an air of finality, that it put John on edge. “Then you can just give it him.”

“Oh no. Nononono. I am _not_ giving a poisonous cake to anyone.” 

“Were you not listening? It won’t kill him; merely make him indisposed for a few days.”

“It’s still poisonous, Sherlock!”

“Mildly! What is the problem?” Finally, he came to stand at the archway that led into the kitchen, giving John such a surly look, though the glare’s effect was minimised due to the dusting of flour--at least, John hoped it was flour--in his hair, that for a moment he closely resembled a petulant child. A six foot petulant child, but a child neither-the-less. “And you’ve yet to answer my question.”

“Jesus Christ, I don’t know. You’re the science genius, not me.”

“You’re the doctor!” Ha. The more agitated he got, the more he moved, creating little puffs of flour showers around his head. 

“So my answer would be any. _Any_ cyanide is too much.” Ah, there, at last, he’d said it. 

“Boring,” Sherlock declared, spinning on his heel and disappearing back into the kitchen. 

Closing his eyes in a long blink, John spoke around the headache that was starting to bloom in his temples. “Who is the cake for, Sherlock?”

“Anderson, obviously.”

“Oh, obviously...” John muttered under his breath, pushing himself to his feet with an almighty sigh, picking up both empty plate and nearly empty mug before padding back into the kitchen. “Why are you trying to poison--”

“--incapacitate! And only for a week, John, don’t be melodramatic--”

“--Anderson and why on earth do you think he’d accept anything off you?”

A snort. “As you’ve so astutely pointed out, he wouldn’t accept anything off me. And as your troublesome morals are preventing you from giving it to him in my place, I’m simply going to leave it in the Yard’s break room. If a few other officers become unwell, it’s of minor consequence to me.” By this point, John had reached the (surprisingly!) still intact kitchen, only to be met with an infuriating smug Sherlock. “Surely you can deduce the why.”

“... When’s the last time you slept, Sherlock?”

“Dull. Three days ago. For fourteen hours.”

“And ate?”

“What’s this got to do with Anderson?” John put his hands on his hips and Sherlock let out an aggravated sigh. “Also three days ago, John. Honestly. You should remember. Chinese take-out?”

“Right then, that solves that. At least I’ve an explanation as to why you think it’s a good idea to want to poi-- incapacitate Anderson just because Lestrade’s going on a, much deserved may I just add, holiday. Go have a nap.”

“I most certainly will not.” Ah, there’s that petulant child making an appearance again. “I’m not a child. You don’t need to mother hen me, John. I’m quite capable of looking after myself.”

John snorted. “Right.” Stalking over to Sherlock, he plucked the glasses off his face. “Bed. Or couch. Frankly, I don’t care. When you wake up, you can decide if it’s still a good idea or not to try and poison the majority of Scotland Yard and if for some mad reason you do, I’m calling Mycroft so he can have you sectioned.” Sherlock glared at him. John stood firm. “I mean it.”

Snatching the apron over his head and yanking his gloves off with a crack, Sherlock stormed off into the living room without a word and threw himself down onto the settee, back presented to the room and shoulders hunched. “I’m not even _tired!_ ”

“Mmhmm.” Putting his plate and mug into the sink, he ignored the table and only just managed to avoid stepping on an eggshell. “Cup of tea, Sherlock?”

“Piss off.”

“Is that a yes?”

Looking over to the living room, he could see that Sherlock had smushed his face into the back of the settee. He could also see him flipping him the bird. “Real mature. Just because I won’t let you try to kill someone.”

“INCAPACITATE, JOHN!”

John valiantly fought the grin that threatened to form. Just another Wednesday midmorning at Baker Street.

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah, I'm not even sure myself. All I know is that I've not wrote any sort of fanfiction for far too long now, work was slow and Google pulled this up under 'Sherlock Fic Prompts'. So yes. There we go. 
> 
> I sincerely apologise if there's any grammatical errors or verb confusions; or anything at all. I'm at _work_ damnit and that's my excuse and I'm sticking to it.


End file.
